


flowers

by spacestationtrustfund



Series: Blackhawk [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/M, Flowers, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 05:01:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4693001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacestationtrustfund/pseuds/spacestationtrustfund
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint finds different ways to give Natasha (and other people) flowers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flowers

**Author's Note:**

> ('I can't write fluff, but I should try,' I said, and failed. And also died.)

 

 

The first time it starts out as an accident: They’re somewhere in France, running down a street full to bursting with bread and fruit and flowers, and behind them come the sounds of shouts and garbled French and the occasional firing gun. Natasha grabs his arm and drags him past a tiny stall selling roses, and following some obscure impulse, Clint grabs a bunch and kicks the vendor’s stall, knocking it over and hopefully stalling their pursuers for at least a short while.

Natasha tugs him along and he chases after her, ducking and weaving through winding streets and alleyways, and _why the hell does France have to be so confusing,_ and she looks back and calls jokingly, “Keep up the pace, Barton!” Clint doesn’t think he’s ever loved her more than then, the way she looks with her hair coming undone and cuts and bruises on her skin and her clothes ripped and a gun in her hand—she’s beautiful, and he wants to tell her so, but they’re running, so he keeps his mouth shut and follows her down a side street he’s pretty confident didn’t exist two seconds ago.

But he can do some things so he snatches her hand and holds his weapons and messed-up flowers against his chest and they run until their feet hurt and the sounds of pounding footsteps behind them have faded into a faint rowdiness in the social disaster that is France’s street plan.

Later, when they’re at the hotel cleaning up somewhat, he realises he’s somehow managed to hold on to the bunch of roses, and he presents them to Natasha with an exaggerated air of romanticism. There’s blood and dirt on her face, the petals are drooping, and they’re both a mess, but her half-smile is worth it. It always has been.

 

***

 

The second time it’s a farce: They’re at a gala, and she’s dressed in a gorgeously exquisite gown that’s practically see-through and leaves very little to the imagination. They’re posing as a newly married upper-class couple, complete with faked smiles and over-the-top declarations of love. Natasha uses a tiny dart to inject a fatal poison into the neck of their target during a pretended stumble—“These shoes really are dreadful, I’m _so_ sorry”—and they get out without any real hindrances.

He doesn’t think anyone sees them as anything out of the ordinary, just a happy couple celebrating in love. Although it isn’t that far from the truth, it’s so messed-up that it feels weird. They’re a couple of master assassins, the perfect pair, the two killers—but tonight, even though they’re only there to kill, they can damn well enjoy themselves.

Clint takes the flowers as an afterthought, seeing how many men have been giving their girls bouquets of roses and lilies and other flowers. He tosses a bill to a young man who’s selling bunches of them, and picks out a tangle of lilacs and other purple things, he doesn’t know what the hell they are. He gives them to Natasha on their way out, and the look of startled surprise on her face is enough to make him want to buy more. “ _Clint,_ ” she says, instead of his false name, and it’s the first indication he gets that she loves him too.

Natasha can’t stop touching the flowers when they get in the limo—yes, Clint Francis Barton rented a limo, and Nicholas J Fury payed for it, _this_ is living the sweet life here and now—folding the petals, caressing them like a soft melody of confusion. Clint grins and says he hopes she likes them, and sorry they’re not equipped with trackers or explosives or anything fancy, and Natasha leans over to kiss him and whispers in his ear, “This is enough.”

She puts them in a tall glass vase on the windowsill of her room in the Tower, and every time Clint walks in for the next few days he sees the thin stems and purple petals and doesn’t bother to suppress his smile, because Natasha likes flowers, goddammit, and he knows it.

 

***

 

It becomes a kind of joke after that: A mission goes south, they barely escape the wreckage, and they both know it’s his fault; Clint buys Natasha flowers as an apology and she laughs and puts them on the sill. Natasha breaks her leg, can’t go on missions for a month, and has to stay bedridden; Clint orders a spray of deep purple lilacs with a miniature sunflower and brings it to her bedside. They spend three weeks searching for someone who shouldn’t exist any more, wasting their time on chasing a ghost story, and it nearly drives them both mad; Clint finds a battered few water lilies and hands them over with a bit of a grin on his face.

Two days after the Battle of New York, he manages to procure a half-dozen lilies wrapped in gold ribbon and gives them to her with a practised bow. Natasha takes them, that rare smile lighting up her face, and kisses him on the cheek. “You’re too much of a gentleman,” she says, and Clint just grins at her with that stupid grin he knows she can’t resist.

They chase a former assassin (who apparently isn’t related to Natasha in any way, she says firmly, not related to the Bolshoi or anything like that) down the streets of Brooklyn and when it’s done Natasha pays for dinner and Clint snags a few black-eyed susans and sticks them in the water jug. The waiter appears scandalised, but Clint doesn’t care, because Natasha is happy.

Fury calls Natasha and picks them up a while away from the centre of town; he needs their help investigating suspicious activities near the Tower. It turns out that Tony’s been messing around again, and after a slue of explanations and apologies, it’s all worked out. Clint tells Jarvis to find him the fanciest flower in Tony’s whole goddamn Tower, and ends up with some weird Oriental rose thing. Natasha likes it, whatever it is, although that’s probably because he stole it from Tony. “Thief,” she teases on the ride back, and Clint pulls her closer and kisses the bright fire of her hair.

They meet this guy Steve knows somehow, Sam, and he has a flower garden in his back yard. “Don’t tell Steve about this,” Natasha says, and Clint grins and asks Sam if he can pick some of his chrysanthemums. Sam says to go wild, and Natasha says, “He’ll take it to heart, I’d bet on it.” Clint tucks a chrysanthemum behind her ear, where it seems to glow against her brilliant hair.

Natasha goes on a mission with Steve (several missions, actually, and no he doesn’t feel left out, well, maybe a little) and there’s a confusing tangled mess of former assassins from Russian and friends who died decades ago and Sam apparently flies now and Fury dies but not really and the other head of SHIELD is head of Hydra but Hydra isn’t supposed to exist and poor Steve is a completely confused lovesick puppy—well, anyway, after most of it’s sorted out, he finds Natasha and gives her a single white rose. She likes the roses best. “Clint,” she says, soft and full of feeling, and it’s enough.

 

***

 

It becomes something so much more than it meant to be in the beginning: Clint starts leaving flowers around their apartment for Natasha to find when she wakes up on the few, rare occasions that he wakes before her; Clint takes them out to dinner to celebrate or to commemorate or to commiserate and buys her a bouquet of tulips; Clint picks a dandelion he sees beside the road because hey, it’s spring, and twists it into Natasha’s curls.

“Is there a reason you’re always finding flowers to give me?” asks Natasha in the middle of a battle; she’s hiding behind an overturned table and shooting guys out of the air as they attack, and Clint is trying to do the same without as much luck, because (although he would never admit it aloud) she has far better aim.

“You wanna bring this up now?” he grunts and lets an arrow fly into the neck of one of their opponents. Good shot, he congratulates himself, but Natasha shows him up by taking down three at once with a well-timed bullet that ricochets off a metal sideboard.

She turns to look at him, her face bloody and bruised and her hair falling over her shoulder. It’s still absolutely beautiful, and he can barely stand it, but he has to admit that stripping in front of the remnants of Hydra is not on his bucket list. “I guess it can wait until dinner. You’re paying again, right?” And she winks indeterminably and goes back to being a total badass.

He does pay for dinner, of course. And after that he makes sure that they won’t be interrupted by anyone, whether it’s Hydra or terrorists or SHIELD or anyone else in the universe. Because god knows even assassins need some alone time.

 

***

 

They join Pepper and Tony on their anniversary, some huge party thing where everyone marvels over how wonderful Tony Stark is and what a legacy his father was, and _isn’t this woman your CEO now?_ Really it’s only an excuse to talk to an agent in the field who’s well-planted, about some super-confidential intel that even Natasha knows only a little about, but it ends up okay. It’s another chance to see Natasha in a dress, which would be worth a lot more than an evening out. And that smile—Clint is sure now that he would burn bridges, destroy cities, ruin worlds to see that smile.

Sometimes it isn’t Natasha who needs the flowers, but she’s always there to see them. Somehow, they’ve become linked to her, even when she isn’t the recipient. Pepper looks stunning with marigolds and wild fennel, it turns out. Rhodey finally caves and wears a flower crown on live television. Sam shows up again and Clint makes him carry an over-abundance of pink roses (“We gotta represent bird squad, dude! Come _on!_ ”). Tony, of course, takes whatever flowers he’s offered. Thor loves the idea and takes to giving Jane lavish gifts of Asgardian flowers each time he visits. Clint is ridiculously happy that it’s such a hit—no pun intended.

Natasha gets a call from Steve a while later—not an emergency, just a plea. “Please come over,” Steve says into the phone. He sounds so sad that Clint reaches for pillows and movies and Lucky and they scramble into the minivan (“A _minivan,_ ” says Natasha in exasperation, “really, Barton? Am I a middle-aged suburban mother now?”) and are at Steve’s apartment in five minutes tops. It turns out that it’s just what the guy needs, and Lucky, of course, is an instant success. He immediately takes to Steve like glue to paper, and it’s a struggle to pry him away when it’s time to go home. “Oh, I suppose we could stay over,” Natasha relents, and they all fall asleep on the floor in a tangle with Lucky curled between them and one of Clint’s flowers sitting on the table. Right now, Steve needs it more than Natasha.

They visit Bruce (on accident) in some third-world country where the people have beaten eyes and sorrowful faces, and Clint drives for five hours to get to the nearest convenience store and purchases dozens and dozens of carnations and daffodils and pushes them into the grasping hands of the children. Several women press his hands in thanks, tears in their eyes, speaking in languages he can’t understand. Natasha slips her arm around his waist, and Bruce is speechless for a while. When he finally remembers how to speak, it’s confused: “You . . . _flowers,_ ” Bruce stammers in awe. Clint grins and tosses Bruce the last of his cash. “That about sums it up,” he says.

“Is there anyone you _haven’t_ given flowers to, Clint?” asks Natasha, not really annoyed. Clint grins and starts to shake his head, but then he thinks about it. “I haven’t given any to Fury,” he admits. Natasha sighs heavily, but she agrees to help smuggle a half-dozen long-stemmed roses into his office. At the next meeting, Fury says with candour that he likes them very much.

 

***

 

The next time it’s a coincidence: She’s so deep undercover that even Clint doesn’t know that Natalie Rushman is working as a librarian (of all job opportunities) in Brooklyn, but when he’s assigned to pose as a businessman/executive/fancy rich guy, they run into each other at the library (of all places, how odd). “Why, fancy seeing you here,” Clint says, keeping his cover.

She smiles with a practised smile, not the smile she gives him that made him love her, or the Black Widow smile that made SHIELD love her, just the full smile that makes everyone else love her. “You too, Mister—?”

“Jones,” Clint replies; it wasn’t his choice. “A pleasure, Miss Rushman.”

Natasha winks surreptitiously and rearranges a pile of books. She’s wearing glasses (do librarians _all_ wear glasses, or is it just a stereotype thing?) and the look suits her. “I’m free for coffee later, if you’re not busy meeting with some high-end business representative or other.”

“Coffee and a beautiful girl, how could I resist?” Clint says, leaning flirtatiously on the counter and accidentally knocking over the stack of books she’s just spent five minutes setting up. Natasha sighs, and it’s so familiar he almost forgets they’re so far off the grid that they might as well not have a grid at all. He buys her flowers, of course.

But they do go out for coffee later, and talk as if they’re strangers who have never met before. Clint thinks he pulls off a fairly convincing act, although he has to admit Natasha is much better (more practice, of course), so it isn’t entirely unprecedented when they go back to his room that night. After all, he’s a rich and important businessman—he has a stereotype to maintain.

Natasha is beautiful in the morning, as a librarian or a spy, or really in general.

 

***

 

The next time it’s because of him: Clint makes mistakes, everyone does, but when you’re in the secrets-and-lies side of things, the mistakes tend to be worse. They’re in India, working to hunt down Hydra or something along that line, and it all goes wrong. It goes worse than just south; a bomb he’s supposed to be dismantling blows up in his face; the mission is over and they almost get made.

They barely escape alive, and after a five-hour plane ride back of shouting themselves hoarse over whose fault it really was, Natasha finally storms off in a huff. Clint stomps up to the front of the plane and asks the pilot where the nearest flower shop is; he ends up with dahlias and hyacinths, both of which smell funny but look nice, and it takes a while but eventually Natasha says, “I can’t stay mad at you, Barton.” It’s the closest she gets to saying _I love you._

 

***

 

The next time it’s another fancy affair: Hydrangeas and irises look gorgeous together, and even better when held against the deep purple of Natasha’s formal gown. From an outsider’s point of view, they could be a stereotypical couple. She puts on makeup while he does his tie. He smooths his suit while she arranges her flowers. She puts on lipstick while he makes sure his hair is properly gelled. A stereotype, an archetype. A different type.

Clint finishes getting ready and tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “You look beautiful,” he says huskily, because she does, and they end up being yelled at by Maria Hill because they almost don’t leave the bathroom, he doesn’t want to stop kissing her.

They dance under the light of the stars and drink champagne that tastes like gold and play the part well. “Sometime,” Clint says in her ear as he whirls her into a turn, her gown flowing out around her, “we need to do this when it isn’t part of a mission.”

Natasha murmurs quiet assent against his skin and kisses his neck, and although the evening ends with blood and bullets and brutality, it’s the sight of her then that he remembers above all else: The way she looks in the moonlight with flowers in her hair.

 

***

 

Some way that he doesn’t know how to explain, what starts as a casual joke turns into everything he wants to tell her but never can. When it’s their day off, as much as it ever can be, and they’re lying tangled together in bed, her hair undone against the pillow, he tries to tell her.

“It’s just, this is a dangerous business, and I don’t want you to get hurt,” Clint says, but the words come out worse than he intended, and it’s the great truth of his life—good with weapons, but not words. Sometimes they mean the same thing.

Natasha smiles and traces the line of his jaw with her fingertips, and he shivers at her gentle touch. “It’s a dangerous game we play, playing with fire, but playing with fire means I’m going to get burned, and I know it. It’s stopped hurting me,” she says, and what scares him is he knows she isn’t lying.

“It still hurts _me,_ ” Clint admits, “every time,” but he doesn’t get any further before Natasha pushes forwards and kisses him, and Clint lets himself be lost in her and all the wonderful ways she is. There are a few sprigs of lavender in a glass jar on the windowsill across from their bed, catching the light.

 

***

 

Steve comes over a week later and brings with him a ridiculous assortment of dog toys for Lucky. “Hey, buddy,” Steve says, and Lucky jumps up and licks his face and wags his tail like the blade of a helicopter. Clint puts his arm around Natasha and she leans into his side, turning her head to press a kiss to his cheek as they watch Steve and Lucky.

“You two are both children,” Natasha says unchidingly, and Steve grins sincerely at her and wrestles Lucky to the ground. Clint joins in, of course. There isn’t a way in all of hell he would stay away from that.

Steve looks up at Natasha from the floor, Lucky panting near his ear. “You know, Natasha,” Steve says, “is there a reason Clint is always giving people flowers? Or is it just a Clint thing?”

“Probably both,” Natasha admits, “but you should probably ask Clint,” and Clint has to admit that all of what she’s saying is true. He tells Steve that he likes flowers, and it’s actually a very manly thing, liking flowers, and all that. Steve raises his eyebrows, unsure whether or not Clint’s messing with him, and Clint laughs and punches Steve’s shoulder. He isn’t messing around, not really. Flowers aren’t that bad.

 

***

 

Natasha’s birthday is the week after that, and Clint finally knows what to get her. “A couple of katana, maybe,” Natasha suggests jokingly, “or a nice, sharp shuriken set,” but Clint smiles secretly, because weapons aren’t quite what he has in mind.

He tells her to close her eyes and leads her into the bedroom, then lets her open her eyes. Natasha’s eyes widen and her mouth actually drops open in surprise, and she utters a small cry. Clint can’t help but smile. In the corner he’s set a rose bush, blooming with small white-and-pink roses. “This one will last,” he says, “like us, right? We’re not gonna give up without a fight,” and Natasha turns and throws her arms around him.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr.](spacestationtrustfund.tumblr.com)


End file.
